Unuhuinë
by Sakirin
Summary: Legolas, racked with guilt for his dead companions, has finally lost all hope of ever finding Merry and Pippin, and can no longer bear the self-hatred that comes with blaming himself. He knows what he wants to do, but can he justify it? Songfic.


Disclaimer:  LotR is not mine, song is not mine.  Simple, yes?

Lyrics from the song "Bother" by Corey Taylor

Why I always get my ideas in the early hours of the morning when I'd like to be asleep, I do not know.  Anyway, this is a suicide-fic, so if you don't like, don't read.

I can't figure out why it decided to be weird with the 2nd verse, nor why it suddenly ignored my italics.  Such an evil thing.

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            In his heart, Legolas knew he would not see Merry and Pippin again.  Aragorn, while he had been faced with a choice which was indeed difficult, had chosen to rest for the night, so that they might not lose the trail of the Uruk-Hai in the darkness.  By dawn they would already be far far away, leaving the three no hope of catching them this time.  The cheerful little hobbits would die, and follow Mithrandir and Boromir.  Four deaths that left the Fellowship at a pitiable five, two of which went to their deaths in the land of Mordor, and three whose choice to rest meant that hope was indeed lost.  For this was how it seemed to Legolas, who could not rest even while Gimli and Aragorn slept beside him.  And as he thought, tears streaked silently down the face of the immortal Elf, who had not been able to save even one of them.  Defenseless against the Balrog, too late to stop the Uruk-Hai, too weary to go on through the night.  What good, then, was immortality, if he could not even save his friends?  He _should_ have been able to save his friends!  He deserved to die…because he had failed his friends, _they_ had paid the price, not he.  Yes, he should have been the one to die, not them.

Wish I was too dead to cry,  
the self-affliction fades,  
stones to throw at my creator,  
Masochist to which I cater.

            But he could not die…Elves were not supposed to die.  I wonder; what is it like to be mortal?  To die?  He looked at his dagger, moving it to and fro, fascinated by the play of moonlight on metal.  What is it about a blade that is so intoxicating, so sharp, and yet so sweet?

You don't need to bother

I don't need to be

I'll keep slipping farther

But once I hold on I won't let go 'til it bleeds

            He looked to Aragorn and Gimli, sleeping nearby.  He regarded the Man with curiousity, musing.  Were Elves and Men really so different?  Aye, in nature, in many things, but physically?  They were of different builds, true, but at the same time there was at least a basic similarity of appearance.  The most significant difference his troubled mind latched onto was mere ear shape: pointed and rounded.  Not so very much, really.  But for all of it, he was immortal and Men were not.  What would they say, if an Elf took his own life?  What in all Arda could be more ironic, more absurd?

Wish I was too dead to care  
If indeed I cared at all  
Never had a voice to protest  
So you fed me s*** to digest  
I wish I had a reason   
My flaws are open season  
For this I gave up trying  
One good turn deserves my dying 

            And then he smiled.  That was the key.  The ears.  Were he of the mortal race of Men, whose ears were not pointed, he could die.  Die without irony, absurdity.  Without making a mockery of the immortal Elves by taking his own life.  But his ears were pointed.  How, then?  Somehow, he would have to change that.  The answer was in front of his face, already in his very hands.  His smile broadened, for here was the answer to his problems.

You don't need to bother  
I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther  
But once I hold on I won't let go 'til it bleeds

            Having made his decision, Legolas lifted the dagger to his left ear, using the thumb and index finger of his other hand to hold onto the tip of it.  The hand holding the blade trembled; he bit his lip.  He would not cry out, must not cry out.  Breathing deeply, trying to ready himself for what he had to do, he cut.  The pain made him reel, and he bit his lip until it, too, bled.  The second time was easier, and the right quickly followed the left.  For a moment that seemed an eternity, he swayed with the self-afflicted pain and nausea, blood oozing from his wounded ears, down his face and neck, sticking in his hair.

Wish I'd died instead of lived  
The zombie hides my face  
Shell forgotten with its memories  
Diaries left with cryptic entries

Ah, yes.  Now it was right, now he could die.  He let out a soft sigh, finding a sort of release and comfort in the warm blood, his blood.  Stilling his rocking, he allowed himself one last look at his companions, the Man and the Dwarf.  It had to be done quickly, for they would soon wake with the fast-approaching dawn.  Where had the night gone?  He held up the dagger, marveling at it in the fading starlight, so soon to be replaced with the light of the sun.  With one quick, decisive movement, he slit his own throat.  And in that last moment, he smiled.

You don't need to bother  
I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther  
But once I hold on I won't let go 'til it bleeds

"Come, Gimli, Legolas!  We have lost much time while we rested here, and must now resume our hunt…

Legolas?  Legolas!"

You don't need to bother  
I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther  
But once I hold on I'll never look down my deceits

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A/N:  This needs a note at the end, I think.  So here they are, the ever-thrilling Author's Notes!

Firstly, I am quite aware that Elves and Men are very different, but the purpose of the comparison was not accuracy.  I think it's safe to say that Legolas isn't exactly in a safe mental state, let alone a sensible one.

Secondly, I know that immortality definitely isn't directly related to ear shape.  He's rationalizing.

And lastly, before anyone asks, yes, I have read 'I Am No Elf' and 'Isengard's Captives' (both wonderful stories that everyone should read, by the way).  There's something so incredibly haunting and powerful in an Elf losing something that marks him as such, in this case the pointed tips of his ears, particularly when coupled with the self-mutilation of doing it himself.


End file.
